Four Tales, One Tail

I don’t mind a good spanking or two. In fact, I’ve probably got them coming to me. But four? That seems like a lot. Here’s what happened last weekend.

We were supposed to spend time with our family, but the plans fell through at the last moment. So my dear Randy decided that this weekend would be a splendid time to get caught up with our spanking backlog. Our what, you say? I said that too, but apparently, in his mind, we were operating at a deficit.

On Friday evening, which is our regular spanking night, when the time came, he produced a white tutu that he had been saving. He remembered that a reader asked whether I had ever been spanked while wearing a tutu. I admitted that I had not. My dear mate took that as a challenge, so now there is a little white tutu for me to add to my life-list.

The reader specifically asked for a tutu in pink, but Randy decided innocent white would be better because my marks would be more visible on camera. I put on the short ballerina skirt over my white thong. It fit my waist, but stuck more or less straight out below that. It provided no protection from the assault to come.

Randy announced that the naughty ballerina must be caned. He had me bend over the foot of our bed and ponder my fate while he finished setting up his cameras and lights. He wanted to memorialize my caning, presumably so I could rebut any future accusations of missing out on a tutu spanking.

And I didn’t miss out either. He said, “Young lady, I have learned that you have been moonlighting as a tap dancer.” I burst out laughing. I couldn’t help it. “Your jocularity has earned you extra punishment strokes.” He was trying so hard to be serious, but I just kept laughing, partly from nervousness and partly because the concept was so goofy. Finally, he broke character and whispered in my ear, “I’m going to beat your ass.” I shivered in anticipation.

He’s getting better at controlling the long punishment cane. With his added confidence has come increased velocity. We quickly departed the realm of play in favor of the world of pain. Ow! I exclaimed as each new stroke landed on my exposed skin. I’m used to getting spanked, but this caning hurt a whole lot. After one stray swing stung my upper right thigh and I jumped a foot straight up, he decided that I’d had enough. I gave him no argument.

After he took a lot of still photos of his favorite punished ballerina and my new collection of red lines, Randy pulled me across his lap and rubbed soothing lotion into the places where I needed it most. His hands were welcome and felt wonderful. One thing led to another, as often is the case, and that lotion ended up all over both of us. Fortunately, that bedspread can be washed.

The second spanking happened Saturday morning after Randy wanted to check me for residual cane marks. To his delight, he found some. This prompted an OTK session with a leather paddle. It left me feeling delightfully warm and toasty back there.

Never one to rest on his laurels, he had to “fix” my kitchen chair for me. I recently purchased some new chair cushions for our wooden kitchen chairs. Can you blame me? The cushions are soft canvas type material on the top side and rubber underneath. This helps prevent them from falling to the floor all the time. By now, you’ve probably guessed Randy’s fix. Yep, he flipped my cushion and directed me to lift my nightgown and sit down on the rubber.

This arrangement would have been uncomfortable on a normal day. But this Saturday was far from normal. My twice battered buttocks rebelled. The sensation was hot and itchy and ouchy and definitely not fun. If this was supposed to be punishment, it was working. After watching me squirm and sweat for about ten minutes, he released me.

As well as I know my husband, I didn’t anticipate his next instruction, “I want you to take a nice warm shower. Let the hot water run right on your butt. Let’s see how long we can preserve that beautiful redness.” OK, I thought, a shower sounds nice. So I did as he instructed. After the shower, I dried, put on a bathrobe, and returned to him.

“Oooo, I love it,” he said as he caressed my soft, warm cheeks. “You might need another spanking…”

Fortunately for me, it was just a hand spanking as I leaned over the kitchen table, Secretary style. But after being thoroughly tenderized, I definitely felt it. I was vigorously rubbing my poor seat as I trudged back upstairs to get dressed. I got spanked again!

Fast forward to Sunday… I was sitting on the living room couch and going though the email account I use for this blog. Randy was nearby half watching a motor race on TV. I was reading some of the silly messages to him. He is amused that strange men send me odd emails. One guy asked me if I have ever been spanked in rhumba pants. I asked Randy if we ever did that. “Oh yes! Absolutely,” he responded, clearly relishing the thought.

“When was that?” I wondered aloud. “Wait right there.” With that, he darted up the stairs, I guess in search of the elusive rhumba pants. After a few minutes, he returned carrying these.


“Oh yeah, those.” I had forgotten about that cute pair of panties with the target right on the back. I guess you could call them rhumba pants. All I knew was that I was just about to be spanked again while wearing those panties. Resigned to my fate, I pulled them up over my thong and under my skirt. Randy had me model for him. With my skirt positioned around my waist, I paraded through the living room to his amusement and delight.

The spanking could be delayed only so long, and I knew it. Eventually, Randy grabbed one of my sandals and led me to the couch. I positioned myself across his lap. “Bad girls,” he informed me, “get spanked on their rhumba pants with a sandal.” I didn’t repeat Friday’s mistake of giggling at his banter. I did make a mental note that there must be some secret top manual that defines the appropriate implement for each situation. Ballerina = cane. Rhumba girl = sandal. And so forth.

This private moment of merriment didn’t last long. Even with the horizonal frills, those rhumba pants provided only minimal armor. The sandal was effective, but far from extreme. I actually enjoyed a leisurely spanking on a Sunday afternoon. It was the first time all weekend that I felt free to get into it and luxuriate in the delicious discomfort. And he kept going, not too hard, just enough to be sure I felt it.

“You know, I like these rhumba pants. I think you should wear them for the rest of the day.” And so it happened. He felt the need to lower them periodically to inspect his handiwork. It was all good fun.

Now the work week has returned and I’m exhausted! I need my job so I have an opportunity to rest. Randy put one of those rubber cushions on my work chair, but I flipped it back over. Even if it costs me a paddling, it will be totally worth it.